


Fight Club

by MemoryCrow



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternative therapies, Gen, Killian Jones' ongoing relationship with the ground, enemies to sort of playmates, guest appearance of cane of feelings, happy violence, kind of silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 00:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10708251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: Boys just wanna have fun? A wee, little jaunt with two men working out personal issues.





	Fight Club

“Oh, you’re such a bloody coward, Crocodile. What are you trying to do? _Glower_ me to death? Hiding behind magic, eh mate?”

“I was thinking, fondly, of beating you to a bloody pulp with my cane, dearie.”

“Nice.” Killian smiled, rolling his eyes to show that he couldn’t get all that worked up over a gimpy Croc and his cane. Then it walloped him upside the head, mid-eyeroll. Well, fuck. The little man was spry.

He wasn’t quite knocked out, though it hurt like the devil. And he wasn’t quite knocked down. Therefore, the cane made another quick, viper attack, this time a solid crack to the side of one knee. Down Killian went, first to his knees, sending painful sparks into a breathless explosion in his head, then into a toppled heap.

It wasn’t the best situation; he was in something of a jam… and a surprising amount of pain; bright, hot, ear-ringing; flares in his head and at his knee, shooting down his leg. Alarms were triggered, warning of injury and internal mayhem, maybe an unfortunate loosening of a tooth. Blood spurted from somewhere on his head; he wasn’t sure where, exactly. He tasted it, and it compromised his vision in one eye. He knew himself to be hard-headed, however. He could take a punch, even if he didn’t always land one.

Though down, he swung wildly. The hook-hand, a gift from the Crocodile, after all, _caught_ …. Good for him. There could be no doubt he ruined an expensive jacket and perhaps did some damage to the flesh, beneath. But the Croc never paused to say, “ _Ow._ ” Or to look affronted, to gasp at ripped cloth.  He didn’t show his pain. He’d changed… and probably Killian had something to do with it…. he’d likely instigated the change. Maybe this was one ugly-arsed chicken, come home to roost.

Weirdly, the Crocodile slapped him. It was as if beating him down, aiming to kill him wasn’t quite good enough. He needed a little hair-pulling, or something. A moment of _Ha!_ He slapped Killian’s face, another hot little flare-up, momentary white-out. He wore leather gloves, not deigning to touch the pirate. Killian felt his jaw captured in the leather-clad hand, a hurtful squeeze. The Croc snarled and his wicked cane swooshed into the air, hovering, anticipating a skull-crushing blow.

Killian growled, fighting beneath the Crocodile’s body. He’d gone down too easily, his body heavy with the drop. It was then that the Croc’s girl called him off. Leashed him. She did it, of all things, to protect the Croc’s _soul_. Well. It also worked out well for Killian’s arse.

He hurt like hell. When the Crocodile was led away from the Jolly Roger, soul presumably no more evil than before, Killian stumbled below decks. He needed a drink.

 

 

It became a sort of game. Maybe, just a little, it was fun. They sprang out, gaudy and haute couture ninjas, from dark alleys or from behind parked cars. They hollered stupid, predictable, cartoon things; like, “ _Now I have you_!” At least once, Killian bounded out, hand and hook raised, and shouted a throaty, “ _Ah-Ha!”_ More than once, the Crocodile pointed with cane, open and broad-smiling glee at play, and announced, “ _There_ you are!”

Here I am, Killian thought. Come and _get_ me.

They were bloody and bruised men. People avoided them and wondered. Even Rumpelstiltskin, who maintained a certain decorum about himself, showed up for work with butterfly bandages and an impressive array of livid bruises, dark to sickly yellow. He seemed rather perky. It was anyone’s guess as to whether he made good with the duct tape and rope or had his arse handed to him on a regular basis… either way, he was unexpectedly cheerful.

Of course, Killian thought, the same could be said of himself. Who knew that such violence would do a body good? It was like therapy; better than. They beat one another, staggered away under the influence of each other’s harm, and contemplated the next time they might play.

 

THE END


End file.
